


cold hands, cold heart

by pensee, vivisextion (pensee)



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Jagten | The Hunt (2012), Trial & Retribution (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Berto’s got some Bad Ideas about Love, Berto’s in his 20s, Both characters looking for a fresh start in America, But I don’t care, Daddy Kink, Excessive Come, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hannibal rare pair, Lucas is canon age, Lucas probably too much of a softdad, M/M, Mild Daddy Kink, Post Jagten, Post Trial and Retribution, Sociopath Berto, Still haven’t seen it, Violence, Violent Thoughts, it ain’t fresh but it’s a start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: Berto’s got a night class with a cute prof named Lucas.





	cold hands, cold heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. Berto loves and I mean LOVES Lucas with all his little sociopathic heart.

When Roberto was five and Tony was three, his brother tried to take a teddy bear he was playing with, and Berto had cried and screamed loud enough to wake the neighbors, grabbing Antonio’s arm and sinking his teeth in until it had spurted red, largely before Berto could even really process what he was doing. That blood was Berto’s first taste of any save his own whenever Papa got mean, and he knew the moment he licked some off the roof of his mouth that just a taste would never be enough.

His record won’t ever be expunged, but long as he keeps his nose clean, he shouldn’t have any problems. At least, that’s what the American social worker tells him, along with where to go to uni, where to hang out, when to shit, along with everything else.

Berto spends his time washing dishes or hooking or smiling at strangers across counters at various coffee shops because it’s convenient, but his artificially smiley face and pretty arse won’t last forever, and his night school classes won’t pay for shit until he has a bloody college degree or a job that doesn’t involve being on his back or breaking it to make a living. Whichever comes first.

But then again, he sighs, heart racing at just the mere thought of night school, there was _Lucas_.

“Um, hi, I’m Lucas,” the professor says.

It’s their first day, and Berto had initially mistaken him for another lost student, shuffling in late, nervous energy like he was waiting to race out of the room as soon as the instructor didn’t show. Thought that, until he watched the other man pick up a marker and write _Lucas Rasmussen_ across the board, all caps, then _Geometry 100_ with a few sine and cosine laws totally foreign to Roberto and about as interesting to him as dirt.

_The man’s got a horrible fashion sense_, Berto notices, (as if his own clothes aren’t the hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs), and dull brown eyes that are nearly on the verge of crying.

Oddly enough, Berto—mean spirited at heart and not afraid to express it now that he’s already been unmasked—never once looks at Lucas that day and feels the urge to push him over the edge.

“I’m taking a chance on you, Lucas,” Doctor Bell sighs, swiping at his tired eyes with a nicotine-stained thumb. “This is a college prep program for a bunch of misfits and delinquents, and frankly, you’re way underqualified for the job, but no one else is lining up to apply.”

“I wanted to thank you for the oppor—.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome. Look, let’s get one thing straight here. First of all, these kids will lie and cheat and try to fuck with you, but if I get an inkling—even an inkling from this administration or any of their case workers that something’s up with you or your effectiveness to provide these kids with a decent education, I will personally be the first to send you to the gallows, you got me?”

As principal of the academy, Doctor Bell is not even artificially optimistic; he is resigned to the fact that Lucas will be just another in a long list of turnovers.

Nodding numbly and accepting his employment packet, his shoes squeaking down the trash littered hallways, Lucas tries to stay focus as he nonetheless slips to thinking: this is where people come when they have no place else left to go.

“So, when is the word ‘therefore’ used properly in this proof?” Lucas asks, to a kid with dreadlocks popping gum, three blondes in the backrow sniffing coke off each other’s keys, a preppy kid chewing his nails, and a family of five brothers fighting over the outcome of a telenovela that was apparently the ‘_only fucking thing on last night_.’

Berto, half-dozing and tracing the outline of the slight paunch stretching out Lucas’s button-up with invisible fingers, feels his fist instinctively clench when the preppy kid, of all people, yells, “This class sucks, and _therefore_, you’re a jackass for teaching it!” to raucous laughter from the whole room.

Lucas just sighs quietly, doesn’t turn red or shout for order, his dead eyes tracking over every one of them and seeing the message, clear as day, like a repeating beacon—_despair, despair, despair_.

_Be still my beating heart_, Berto mumbles to himself, thinking about how pretty Lucas’s eyes were, even if they were the same shade of brown as anyone else’s. And even prettier, how Mr. Preppy Boy’s collar would look all spattered in red.

“Sorry,” Berto says, “accidentally” knocking a pencil out of Lucas’s hand and reaching down to retrieve it along with his test paper, a nice red 100 underlined across the top of his exam. Lucas swallows visibly as Berto’s bony hip almost grazes his leg, and Berto thinks, _Mmmmmm_.

“See you later, prof,” he smiles, laying the accent on thick, and Lucas says something in what, Swedish? Danish? that might equate to _little fucking shit_, as he gulps, “You have a good weekend, too, Roberto.”

He waves, hand falling in an aborted motion back to his side when he realizes, a second too late, that Berto’s already left the room.

Berto sucks off a man that he first met at one of his many odd jobs in a tinted town car with a broken air conditioning system, and nicks his wallet during, telling himself the sweat and tears of boredom would be worth it for the extra cash.

Rummaging through his loot after the man leaves, he finds a photo of three kids and an annoyingly smiling redhead, and tosses it all out with the grocery rewards cards and ID, though the image sticks in his mind.

One big happy family. Huh.

“Got any kids, prof? Is that why you like to teach?”

Lucas has to know it’s a joke, because the academy is a hellhole and one of his shittiest students has disappeared recently (‘foul play suspected’, the news said). But it’s a joke Berto has to make to ingratiate himself, because his first Daddy surrogate is gone, gone from his life as much as Antonio was, and try as he might to make it on his own, he needs a replacement, even if Lucas is as different from the man he once looked up to as his savior as night is to day.

“I have a son, about your age. A-A little younger than you,” Lucas says, offhand, trying not to choke on the words, the mournful sound of his embarrassment enough to make Berto’s knees shake.

God, the helpless look in Lucas’s eyes felt better than violence, even, and he tells himself he’d let Lucas beat him one day, to teach him how transcendent it was, to be able to hurt something that could not hurt you back.

“Did you walk home together and make dinner together too?” Berto asks, sidling up to the narrow counter, idly stirring the pasta, watching it flow and settle in the boiling pot.

“Berto, please stop,” Lucas rasps, moving away, as far as the small kitchen will allow, and Berto scoffs at the notion anyone could have thought this man a threat to anything—if he had been, Berto would’ve had an ass full of come and a neck full of bites like yesterday. But here he was, free and clear.

For now.

“Stop what,” he grins, coy, gently steering Lucas towards the lumpy couch that smelled of cigarettes and booze long before Lucas got his hands on it.

“May I?” he asks, trembling, polite, guiding Lucas’s hands and being guided in turn, Lucas’s fingers shaking at the buckle of his belt and the button-flies of his trousers, muscle memory rather than common sense leading the way.

Berto decides to tease him a bit, stripping off his worn denims and pants, left in a flowy flannel shirt threadbare as all hell, watching Lucas’s wandering eyes finally looking at him. And he can’t help but whisper, “I’ll help you feel good, Papa,” and waiting eagerly for a positive reaction, though Lucas’s expression crumples before going completely still.

Berto curses himself, thinks, _I’ve lost him_, until Lucas croaks, “Show me,” and cups a big hand around himself and pumps a few times, Berto wasting no time falling to his knees. Lucas tries nothing to hold or manipulate him by the hair because he’s probably only been with good girls and good boys, people he’s met at parties or bars, classmates, the mother of his child.

Berto—who is none of these things—has none of those pesky little etiquettes to worry about, and he opens wide, Lucas not attempting to shove too deep too early, and Berto savors the slide of Lucas’s cock down his throat, thinking, _oh, big boy_.

They made them perfect, up North, he smiles to himself, a little of his own slick dripping down his legs, and he stretches his mouth, sucking and licking lightly in turns, breathing panicky out of his nose to see what that does for Lucas.

The poor man balks and tries to pull back, and Berto nearly humps the floor (God, Lucas was so—he just cared that much).

“You don’t have to be careful with me, no one else is,” Berto says, saliva flooding his mouth, musk in his nose, Lucas’s hand on his face.

“I have to, because no one else is,” Lucas says, his glasses fogged slightly, palm tracing Berto’s cheek, and Berto feels tears drip from the corners of his eyes, not even consciously registering the prickly sensation of telling himself to cry—hadn’t really needed to, with Lucas’s earnest voice echoing in his head.

He slurps noisily along Lucas’s still-hard shaft, engulfing even more, tightening his mouth again and again till Lucas hisses and comes, Berto humming happily at the taste of salty liquid on his tongue.

Lucas has apparently not come for a long while, because as Berto’s knees are crossing, shuddering through half an orgasm of his own from the warmness dripping into his belly, Lucas comes inside of him again, so much of a load that Berto has to gulp it down three times to keep from suffocating on the white bubbles threatening to pour out his nose. As wonderful an image that would be to most of the men he’s dealt with, he’s sure, Lucas would rather remedy it as soon as possible, walking to the sink with his cock tucked haphazardly back into his boxers.

Sink on, then a glass at Berto’s mouth, a cloth to wipe his face.

“Oh, sorry,” Berto murmurs, feels like he’s said it a lot, more times in theses short months with Lucas than in his whole life. Difference is this time he means it, bending down to his knees again to scrub at a bit of stray come that’s dripped on the floor, Lucas watching him as if mesmerized as he sticks out his tongue and presses it against the still-damp floor boards, adoring gaze on Lucas the whole time.

“Berto, Berto, _stop doing_—You don’t have to—Not like,” Lucas is saying, but Berto knows, knows he’s still, despite himself, interested in why Berto feels he needs to debase himself accordingly, fighting against himself to admit that he likes the aesthetic of it.

Hurting something that couldn’t hurt him back, not like the rest of the world would—Berto wanted Lucas to have that, and he says so.

“You’re a sweet man, Lucas. Mister Rasmussen,” he says, correcting himself.

Standing on wobbly legs and leaning up close as he can to Lucas’s ear, he promises, “And sweet men get to keep me, for as long as they want.”

He pulls back, though somehow in the last few moments, Lucas’s hand has found its way to his lower back, keeping him from stepping away entirely.

Biting his lip, Berto feels himself tearing up again, because Lucas’s expression says it all. By the determined glint in his eye, he’s sure that he’s willing to keep Berto for a very long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I write a fic without Daddy kink? Never tried. 
> 
> @penseeart on Twitter for more Daddy stuff


End file.
